Reaction
by Mingsmommy
Summary: Post 8X01, a sequel of sorts to my post 7x23 story, Equal and Opposite.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own CSI or any of its characters. I am making no money from this fic. Please don't sue.

**A/N:** I lost at a stump the author meme to the lovely gabesaunt. She gave me the prompt of water. Also posted on my LJ. I really sucked at that meme...there will be a few of these. This is a sequel of sorts to my post 7X23 story _Equal and Opposite_. Spoilers for 8X01 Thanks to the amazingly lovely Kristen Elizabeth for the beta. I just love that girl.

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Completely ignoring the fact that she had left him six days prior to being taken by Natalie, he took her home (his home, their home) from the hospital. Exhausted, weak and obviously still in a great deal of pain, she had stumbled to the master bath and turned both taps on, watching the water come gushing out of the spout with flat, dark eyes.

He stood in the door and watched her, equal parts frightened and angry. "You can't take a bath."

"I'm filthy," her voice was every bit as flat as her eyes. "I'm taking a bath."

Her face was still scraped and raw, even after three days of hospital sponge baths he could still see grit around her hairline, black marks on her arms and her nails…her nails were still caked with grime.

"Sara…" he saw her mouth tighten at his tone and his shoulders slumped, defeated. "At least…" he cleared his throat, "at least let me help you."

She lifted her uninjured shoulder in a half shrug, not of acquiescence he was sure, but in a gesture too weary, too indifferent to fight and carefully lifted her shirt from her body.

He looked at the oversized garden tub and then back at her weary figure slumped against the wall, uncoiling the wrap around her ribs, slowly, inch by inch as if the movements were being performed by somnambulist.

The thought of her surviving the car, the flashflood, the mudslide and then coming home to drown in her own bathtub struck him as morbidly ironic and just something Sara would do. He knew the only way to support and help her was to join her in the water.

She didn't comment when he began disrobing with efficient movements nor when he helped her out of her sweat pants. He climbed in the tub and held out his hand and they (slowly, carefully) brought her into the water and then sat down together.

She sat with her back to him, slumped slightly forward and he knew the simple act of undressing and climbing in the tub had drained her of what little strength she had. "Just soak for a minute, OK?" he murmured and tentatively pulled her back against him, half surprised when she allowed herself to rest against his chest.

He fought the sigh of naked relief at the feel of her skin against his.

The slightest lap of water against their nested bodies was the only sound in the tiled room.

He tried to be grateful that she was here in his arms and not dead. Not crushed to death, not drowned, not dead from exposure or dehydration. Not dead.

And he was grateful. But he was also angry. Tried to tell himself he was angry at fate or God or Natalie. But he knew he was angry with Sara. It felt like a stone of fire in the center of his chest. Hurt and pain and never ending fire.

Silently, he reached for the bath puff she had left and poured some shower gel into it and he began gently scrubbing her, back and arms and hips and legs reaching around to do stomach and chest, moving her, holding her, posing her. Cleaning away the hospital, the desert, Natalie.

He was angry she had let Natalie get to her. Where was her training, where was her self defense? How could she do that? Let herself get caught, kidnapped, taken…how could she? Angry she had left him. Angry she had loved him. And there it was. He had warned her, told her over and over and over again he would hurt her. How many times had he told her?

Suds gathered on skin, then sluiced away with clear, warm water. Cleaned and cleansed.

She was too stubborn, too stubborn to listen…and now he had to live with the memory of her hurt face…when he left for Massachusetts, when he helped Heather, when they finally found her. He hurt her too much and he had known he would but he hadn't known then how much it would hurt him to see her hurt. He felt like a raw nerve…even what was meant to soothe caused pain.

Carefully, silently, he shampooed her hair taking the utmost care, but when he leaned her head back so he could rinse her hair with the shower attachment, he pretended not to see her flinch as the water fell toward her face. But she stayed in place, letting the streams of water take away the lather, take away the dirt, the sand.

Ready to tell her he couldn't do it any more, he drew in a breath and pulled her scent into his nasal passages and his lungs and his throat clogged and he couldn't speak because she smelled like Sara and she was here, cranky and tired and flawed and hurt and he didn't know how to stop hurting her but he had to try, had to because he couldn't live without her, didn't want to try whether she was in her condo across town or in a coffin in the ground. Couldn't stop, couldn't ever stop loving Sara.

He was kneeling, naked, in the water in front of her as he ran the spray over her hair and body, and he felt like penitent, full of sin, ready for baptism, ready to be reborn, here and now in the only fire he had ever know. Sara.

She captured his wrist, and pulled his hand down, aiming the shower head away from them and touched his face. She swiped her thumb across the tear on his cheek and then put the thumb to her lips, darting her tongue out to touch the salty drop. "I'd like to come home if you still want me."

Her voice was still flat, but he felt for the first time in ten days something like hope.

"I…" he had to clear his throat again, "I want you. I love you. Please come home."

"All right. Good." she nodded. "Good."


End file.
